


The Spy Left Out in the Cold

by 221Browncoat



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angsty Illya, GSW, Hypothermia, M/M, Napoleon Whump, Whump, buckle up y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-07 03:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Browncoat/pseuds/221Browncoat
Summary: Napoleon blinks up at him. "Go.""No. No. I cannot leave you. To leave you here would be a death sentence.""You've got to. You've...Illya, you don't have a choice."Napoleon whump and Illya angst coming your way! Thanks, sis, for beta-ing!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Biiiiig shout-out to TerresDeBrume who was kind enough to fix my terrible French!!! Thank you!  
> Translations are at the end of each chapter as needed.

xxx  _Then_

"It sounds like a simple extraction," Napoleon said with a sniff. "Another rich politician's privileged son, taken for ransom or leverage or whatever these bastards are after. We'll just kidnap him back and take him home to daddy."

Waverly looked unimpressed. "Do try and remember this is a stealth mission. Our man on the inside says Janssen's son is being kept in one of the outbuildings. You're to retrieve him as quickly as possible  _without_ drawing attention to yourselves. Got it?"

Napoleon shrugged. "It certainly isn't anything I haven't dealt with before."

Waverly raised his eyebrows in a look that Solo had come to learn meant something like,  _you're completely bloody wrong._ "Well, um, how are you with children?" the Brit asked, a hint of smugness in his voice. "Because the prince's son is, I believe, six years old."

Illya made a face, wrinkling his nose and pulling down the corners of his mouth. Napoleon, on the other hand, looked more terrified than disgusted.

"You may find this hard to believe," he said slowly, "but even given my considerable charm, I am not gifted with children. Why don't you send Gaby with Illya?"

"She's on another operation. Unless you'd like to trade places with her and seduce an arms dealer."

Napoleon shrugged. "Given the choice…"

"Come on, Cowboy," Illya said, nudging the American in the ribs. "Don't let him intimidate you. Children can smell fear, you know."

Napoleon scowled at him, then turned to the Brit and narrowed his eyes. "Fine. But Waverly, if the little brat gets anything on my clothes, I'm going back to the CIA."

xxx  _Now_

"How...how much further?"

Illya is startled at how frail the American sounds, and for what seems like the hundredth time in this hellish trek, he wishes he could give him a helping hand. Unfortunately, though, Illya's arms are full of a very small and trembling member of the Belgian nobility.

"Not far now, Cowboy," he answers. A lie. He knows it. He knows Solo knows it, too. "How are you holding up?"

"Okay. 'm okay," Napoleon responds, but it's another lie.

Illya stops walking and turns around. His partner is barely standing, his face pale, forehead beaded with sweat despite the chill in the air. One gloved hand is clamped firmly against his right side, somewhere between his hip and ribcage. There's a red stain in the snow below him. Illya cranes his neck to see behind the agent and is overcome with a sinking feeling as he spies the trail of blood.

He makes a decision.

"We're going to take a break and stop the bleeding."

" _Pourquoi on s'arrête_?" wonders the bundle in his arms. Illya looks down at the boy and forces a smile.

" _Juste un moment, petit prince_ ," he replies.

"No. Just...you just go," Napoleon says, lowering himself gracelessly to the ground and landing in the snow with a light  _thump_.

"What are you talking about? I'm not going to leave you here," Illya says. He struggles to get the words out, as his throat has grown suddenly and inexplicably dry. He can feel the child gazing up at him.

Napoleon smiles slightly. He looks tired. "I'm shot, Kuryakin. Even if...even if we get this bleeding stopped, I'll never make the rendezvous point. You need to take the kid and get out of here."

Illya knows he's right. But he doesn't want him to be. "Maybe we could…" He sighs. "What if they come for him? What will you do?"

"Help me get off the road," Napoleon responds, ignoring Illya's queries. "Into the woods, just...just a ways beyond the treeline. You c'n come back for me after you get him to...to Waverly."

Illya sighs and nods. He turns his face down to the boy. " _Je te fais descendre,_ " he says.

The boy shakes his head, wrapping his arms tighter around Illya's neck and burying his head in his shoulder, making a sound of protest.

" _Un moment_ ," Illya says, prying the boy from him and setting him down on the ground. He wraps the blanket tighter around the child, who now looks like he's ready to cry. " _Un moment,_ " Illya repeats, and hurries to the other agent's side.

Napoleon looks up at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled in pain, and reaches up with the arm that isn't holding the bullet wound. Illya takes his hand.

"You ready?" he asks, and Napoleon nods. Illya pulls him to his feet, doing his best to ignore the grimace and barely-stifled cry. "Okay?"

Napoleon nods again, panting. He doesn't say anything, just breathes, and Illya knows that's a bad sign.

Napoleon's legs collapse beneath him after a few tentative steps into the woods, and Illya ends up half-dragging him the rest of the way, Napoleon making discontented noises the entire time (though Illya can't tell if it's because he doesn't like being helped or if it's from the pain). They finally stop next to a tree that's large enough to provide some cover from the road, should anyone come along looking for the child. Illya eases Napoleon slowly and carefully to the ground. The American is just conscious, lids parted slightly, eyes tracing listlessly back and forth. Illya's heart is pounding and he shakes his head as he kneels, then takes his partner's face in his hands. Napoleon blinks up at him.

" _Go._ "

"No. No. I cannot leave you. You're wounded and it's cold, and it is only going to get colder. To leave you here would be a death sentence."

"You've got 've...Illya, you don't have a choice." He shifts his gaze somewhere beyond Illya's shoulder. Illya turns. The boy is standing a few feet back, shivering in the blanket, snot running down his face. Illya turns back to the American.

"I'm going to pack the wound with snow, it will stop the bleeding," Illya says, scooping up a handful of the white fluff. Napoleon raises an eyebrow at him. Illya shrugs. "This is not the first time a partner has been wounded in the snow. Knowing you, it probably won't be the last." He presses the cold powder to Napoleon's side, hoping to whatever god is listening that he isn't about to freeze his closest friend to death

"Th-that's damn cold," Napoleon whispers with a grimace.

"I know," Illya answers. He looks over at the boy. " _Viens ici_."

The boy obeys, reluctantly shuffling forward. Illya reaches for the blanket and the boy shrinks away.

" _Il fait froid_ ," he whimpers.

"I know it's cold," Illya says softly. " _Je vais te garder au chaud_." He tugs the blanket loose, then turns to Napoleon, draping the blanket over him and wrapping it tightly around his shoulders. "There. Now you stay alive, okay? Stay alive until I return. I won't be long."

Napoleon narrows his eyes. "I don't...an-answer to you, P-...Peril."

"You will if you do not do as I have said," Illya warns. He stands, with no small share of reluctance. "Please, Napoleon. I do not want to lose you."

_I can't lose you._

A small smile. "I'll be right...right h-here."

"You better be," lllya answers. He unzips his coat then turns back to the shivering child and picks him up. " _Mets tes bras autour de mon cou_ "

The child nods and obeys, wrapping his arms tightly around Illya's neck. Illya zips the coat back up, enveloping the child, before looping one arm around the boy. "I'll be back soon, Cowboy," he says.

"Course...course you will...Peril," Napoleon breathes.

Illya nods before heading back to the road, clutching the boy and not daring to look back, lest doing so should turn his partner into a pillar of salt.

xxx

Napoleon shivers under the blanket, his teeth chattering so intensely that he's sure anyone who happens on the road will hear the noise and come looking. The bleeding seems to have stopped, though, which is good. It would be better if he hadn't already lost so much of it, but he'll take what he can get.

He really hates the cold.

Cold does things to a person.

Looking out into the darkening woods, Napoleon can almost see them: three men, hands and faces black and purple with frostbite, naked bodies twisted in the snow. He remembers the day well. How at first he thought they'd been killed and stripped of their uniforms by the enemy, but they had no outward injuries. How it was another soldier, a kid from the Appalachians, that explained it to him. The cold played tricks on the mind, confused people until they were tearing their clothes off, completely unaware that they were only hastening their own demise. Napoleon's seen many things, things that he'll never forget, but nothing haunts him quite like those bodies in the trees outside Bastogne.

A sudden  _snap_  pulls Napoleon from the memory, and he scrambles for his gun. His movements are slow and sloppy under the blanket, but he manages to get his left arm out from under it with his weapon drawn. He does a slow scan of his surroundings, staring out into the frigid darkness, the gun trembling in his hand as the shivering becomes more violent. He's beginning to think he'd imagined it when he hears it again-the unmistakable sound of a small branch breaking. He strains his eyes, struggling to spot whoever or whatever is out there with him.

He doesn't even notice his fingers curling against the cold until his gun goes off.

" _Fuck!_ " he whispers, dropping the weapon into the snow. He needs to move, needs to  _hide_ , but his shaking limbs don't seem to want to obey. It takes every ounce of strength he has to make it to his feet, and even then he's bent at the middle, leaning against the tree for support.

The blanket, stiff with cold, lies useless on the ground.

He's catching his breath when he sees the light. He squints at it, fear lacing through him because there are really only two possibilities. Either he just gave away his position and one of the terrorists is on his way over, or Napoleon is so cold that he's hallucinating.

He's really not sure which is worse.

As he watches, the light starts to grow, ever so gradually, and he's starting to think it's real at the same time that he remembers he's dropped his gun into the snow. He knows that if he lowers himself to try and dig it out of the snow he won't make it back to his feet. His teeth are chattering so badly that he bites his tongue, and his mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood. He closes his eyes in frustration. He's so damned  _tired_. And despite the numbness that's quickly overtaking his arms and legs, the bullet wound in his side hurts like hell. When he opens his eyes again, the light's even bigger and he can see its movement. Before long he'll see who's carrying it and after that, well…

Napoleon closes his eyes again and lets his body sink back into the snow.

xxx

Translations:

 _Pourquoi sommes-nous arêtes_ \- Why are we stopped?  
_Juste un petit prince_ \- Just a moment little prince.  
_Je te fais descendre_ \- I'm putting you down.  
_Un moment_  - One moment.  
_Venz ici_ \- Come here.  
_C'est froid_ \- It's cold.  
_Je vais te garder au chaud_ \- I'll keep you warm.  
_Bras autour de mon cou_  - Arms around my neck.


	2. Chapter 2

xxx  _Then_

Illya and Napoleon were lucky enough to find the boy in the first room they tried. They were unlucky enough to also find three guards, one of whom managed to fire off a warning shot which meant that the quiet extraction was about to get a lot less quiet.

"They definitely heard that," Napoleon said. He could see the trembling child out of the corner of his eye. "What do we do with him while we take care of the guys out there?"

Illya did a quick scan of the room before crossing to a large cabinet and pulling out the contents, scattering them on the cold cement. He looked up at Napoleon. "Here."

Napoleon scooped up the boy and stowed him in the small space. "We'll be right back," he said, before putting a finger to his lips and closing the boy in. He drew his knife. "Let's go."

They worked quickly, taking out the men in the building's other three rooms. They had the element of surprise on their side, though by the time they'd gotten to the last man they'd both been disarmed. Illya wrestled him into a chokehold and looked up at Napoleon, straining.

"I've got him. You go get the boy."

Napoleon nodded and ran back to the other room, rushing in and flinging open the cabinet door. The boy jumped and let out a cry.

" _Qui es-tu_?" he whimpered, shrinking away from the American with wide eyes.

Napoleon sighed and tried not to sound as fed up as he felt. "I'm here to help you."

The boy stared at him with wide eyes, his lower lip quivering as he scrunched himself further into the corner.

Napoleon rolled his eyes and let out a small sound of frustration, which he quickly smothered with a smile and quirked eyebrows. "Listen, I'm a friend, you understand?  _Camarde_!"

The boy just shook his head and sniffled.

He was usually very skilled at keeping his personal feelings in check, but Napoleon was growing increasingly irritated. There was a reason he avoided children. They didn't listen to reason, they had the communicative abilities of a goldfish, and they were so damn  _emotional_. He took a deep breath. "Look, kid-"

Just then, the door burst open and Illya appeared, panting, his expression equal parts confused and annoyed. "What is taking so long? We have to go!"

Napoleon shrugged helplessly and gestured at the cowering child.

Illya bent down so he was eye-level with the kid and gave a small wave. " _Salut ami. Je suis là pour te ramener à ton père_."

Napoleon frowned, giving Illya a sideways look. "Since when do you know French?" he asked, simultaneously impressed and annoyed.

Illya glanced over at him. "Since Waverly had me and Gaby learn while you were studying Farsi. Now shut up and let me talk to the boy." He turned back to the kid. " _Allons-y, petit prince_!"

The kid whispered something that Napoleon couldn't hear and Illya snorted.

"What?" Napoleon asked, trying to sound less interested than he actually was.

Illya grinned. "He says he does not like you."

Napoleon felt his eyes narrow as he opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn't surprised, really. "Why don't I go find a blanket. We have to get to the rendezvous on foot and he's not exactly dressed for the weather."

"Good idea," Illya answered as Napoleon slipped behind him and out into the hall.

It didn't take him long to find a large blanket. Even evil child-snatching terrorists got cold, and the compound wasn't exactly cozy. He snatched up the olive green wool monstrosity and made his way back to Illya and the child.

"Here," he said, holding out to Illya, who had somehow managed to coax the boy out of hiding.

Illya took it and wrapped it tightly around the boy, who watched Napoleon with a solemn gaze.

"How did you get him to come out when I couldn't?" he asked, slightly unnerved at the kid's apparent ability to not blink.

"Children can sense when you do not like them," Illya responded, scooping the child into his arms.

Napoleon snorted. "I saw your face when Waverly told us the mission. You don't like kids any more than I do."

Illya shrugged. "I guess I'm good at pretending. Now come on, it's nearly dawn, and we won't have much daylight to get to the extraction point."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow as he stepped back out into the hallway and did a quick sweep. "Since when are you good at pretending?"

"I pretend to like you, don't I?"

"Ha ha ha," Napoleon responded. "And that was me pretending to laugh. Now let's get the hell out of here."

xxx  _Now_

Bastien looks up at the darkening sky and sighs, taking a step forward. His boot finds a branch, and its crack sends birds flying. He shakes his head at himself. It was stupid of him to come out hunting this late, and he has no doubt that he's going to make the long trek home empty-handed. At least he had the foresight to bring a lantern with him. He feels around in his coat pocket and brings out his tiny matchbox. He pulls one out. It takes him a few tries to light it, and he smiles when the tiny flame finally appears.

He's about to light his lamp when a shot rings out, startling him and making him drop the match in the snow. He swears and gets another one out. Before he lights it, though, he takes a moment to just stand and listen. It's hard to tell, but the shot hadn't sounded far off. He doesn't know of anyone else hunting in these woods, but if someone had just shot something they may need help getting it prepared and hauled before the night turns completely black.

Bastien sighs again and lights another match, then his lantern.  _You must be out of your mind,_ he thinks as he walks further from home and toward the sound of the gunshot instead. He hasn't been trekking through the snow very long, but the sky is already taking on an inkiness that worries him. No stars means clouds, and clouds mean snowfall. He can almost taste it in the air and he knows he should turn back, but something stops him from doing so. He hasn't seen or heard anything since the gunshot, and he knows whoever had fired the round is probably in trouble.

He comes across the man so suddenly that it startles him, but any fear is erased very quickly as he realizes that the figure huddled in the snow doesn't pose a threat. The man is younger than Bastien and well groomed, and doesn't look at all like a hunter. Looking closer, Bastien can see that the man is shivering-a good sign, because it means his body hasn't given up yet against the cold. But it still could, and the temperature is only going to drop.

He sets his lantern on the ground, carefully so that it settles on top of the snow rather than sinking into it, and closes the small distance between himself and the man, then bends down. It's been awhile, but he still remembers how to carry a person. He hooks his elbows under the man's armpits and stands slowly, grunting under his weight. By the time the man is on his shoulders, Bastien is breathing heavily. His eyes fall to where the man had lain, and his heart jumps.

There's blood on the snow.

The man must be injured, then, which means he's in even more danger than Bastien originally thought. It won't be easy getting home. It's a long walk, made longer by the dark and the man on his back, and he's grateful for his hunting experience and familiarity with the woods. It's hard at first, but adrenaline kicks in as the instinct to keep another of his species alive takes over. Even so, it's not long before he begins to tire, and he's forced to stop and rest twice on the way (though he doesn't dare put the man down for fear that he won't be able to pick him up again).

When he finally reaches his cabin, he's gasping and sweaty as he all but stumbles up the steps. Once he's inside, he puts the man down as gently as he can manage and immediately stokes the fire. It roars to life, providing enough light for Bastien to get to work helping the stranger. He goes to his bedroom first, opening a drawer and grabbing bandages and sulfa powder, then pulls all the blankets from his bed. He dumps everything onto the floor, then sets about the task of getting the man out of his sopping wet clothes, starting with his fancy boots and working his way up until the man is stripped down to his skivvies.

With his chest bare, the man's injury is apparent-a gunshot wound to his side that, luckily, seems to not be bleeding. Bastien lights a lantern to take a closer look, rolling the man part-way to check for an exit , there appears to be one, and he's not losing blood there either. Bastien figures it must be due to the man's low body temperature, which means that once he warms up he'll be at risk of bleeding again. Bastien grabs the sulfa powder first, pouring it on both wounds to help avoid infection before bandaging them up.

Once the wounds have been tended to, Bastien wastes no time tucking blankets around the man. His shivering has decreased dramatically and his lips have taken on a bluish hue, and Bastien needs to get his body temperature up. He goes to a hall closet pulls out some furs he's recently tanned and maneuvers them under the man's body to insulate him from the cold floor, then make sure the man is cocooned well to keep his body heat from escaping.

The only thing left to do now is wait. Bastien tries to settle into his chair to read, but the man needs close monitoring, and Bastien finds himself checking his breathing and pulse every few minutes. He's treated hypothermia before, but he's not sure how the injury will affect the man's body's ability to warm itself up. Blood loss and shock could very well make things more complicated, and Bastien is worried that without constant vigilance, the man might just slip away. After a few hours, however, the man's condition has improved dramatically. His teeth are chattering and his skin is still slightly cool to the touch, but his lips are no longer blue and he's stopped shivering. He seems to be stable, so Bastien feels comfortable leaving him alone for a short time.

He builds a fire in his little wood-burning stove and gets a kettle of water on to boil before making a simple broth and setting it on the stovetop to heat up.

Bastien is putting tea on the stove when he hears it.

"Illya?"

Bastien frowns and walks back into the front room. The man is awake, though perhaps not entirely lucid, looking around the room with furrowed brow.

"Illya?" he says again, his voice low and scratchy.

Bastien steps closer to where the stranger is name sounds Russian. Bastien doesn't speak it fluently (not by a long shot), but he's picked up a few phrases here and there.

" _Ty...ty govor...govorish' po-frantsuzki_?  _Ty govorish' po-frantsuzki_?" He hopes he just asked the man whether he speaks French.

The man doesn't answer, so Bastien goes back to the stove, where the broth is already hot. He dips some into a bowl and grabs a spoon and heads back to the man's side, sitting down near his head. His eyes are slightly open, his Adam's apple bobbing as though he's trying to say something.

"Ssh," Bastien says, setting the bowl next to him. He cradles the man's head with one hand, propping him up so that he'll be able to swallow more easily, and spoons soup into his mouth with the other, relieved when the man swallows it. He doesn't quite manage to finish the bowl, but for now it's enough. The man falls asleep moments later, and Bastien returns to his chair to wait out the rest of the night.

xxx

"He was here," Illya says, and he's trying not to panic. He's not doing a very good job. "He was right here!"

"Are you sure?" one of the tactical guys asks, and Illya has to resist the urge to hit him.

"Yes, I am fucking sure," Illya all but growls, and the man takes a few steps back.

"Look, do you think it's possible he moved? Tried to find a more favorable position?" It's Enzo, the leader of the special ops team, that asks.

Illya eyes the little Italian before answering with sinking heart. "No, I don't think so. He was...he was badly injured. If he did manage to move, he…" He scrubs a hand down his face. "He would not have made it far."

He startles everyone when he lets out a shout and punches the tree nearest him, hard enough to bust open his knuckles. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the cold bark, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. He's allowed himself the outburst; he will not allow himself another.

"Agent Kuryakin," Enzo says, taking a step toward him.

"I should not have left him," Illya says.

"I think we have to face the possibility that Agent Solo is-"

"We would have found his body, no?" Illya interrupts. He doesn't even want to hear the words. He opens his eyes and turns around. "They must have taken him. The terrorists. Now that the boy is safe, we can storm their compound and get Solo back."

xxx

_Qui es tu_ \- Who are you?  
 _Salut ami_  - Hello, friend.  
 _Je suis la pour te ramener à ton père -_ I'm here to take you back to your dad.


	3. Chapter 3

xxx  _Then_

"Tell him to close his eyes," Napoleon said, carefully stepping over the arm of a dead man. His boot landed in a pool of blood.

" _Ferme tes yeux,_ " Illya said, and Napoleon almost smiled at the gentleness in his voice.

"You lied to me, Peril. I thought you didn't like kids." He moved over so he could turn and see Illya's face more easily.

"I don't," Illya said. "I just know how to talk to them. You give me plenty of practice."

Napoleon let out a sound of mock hurt as they picked their way through the carnage to the exit. "You've been spending too much time with Gaby. Our little harpy seems to be rubbing off on you."

"She says the same thing about you. I think you're both to blame."

Napoleon couldn't stop the small laugh the erupted from him. "Yes, that's probably true." He was turning to say something else when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Things happened quickly from there-Napoleon, placing his body between the man and Illya at the same time that he shouted for his partner to look out, his gun already out of its holster, his finger already tightening. He'd barely got the shot off before he felt it, in his left side, hot and sharp. He heard the child scream, and Illya shouting his name.

"I'm-I'm fine!" he gasped, his left hand clamping to the wound while he put his gun away with his right. "Illya, keep him quiet." He took a few experimental steps forward and was relieved to find he could still walk.

Illya didn't move from where he stood. "Cowboy…"

"I'm  _fine_ ," Napoleon insisted. "I'll be fine. We have to get him out of here. Once we're beyond the compound we can try and figure out what to do about...this."

There was a long pause before Illya said, "Okay." He didn't sound convinced, but he started walking again. It wasn't long before he took the lead, for which Napoleon was grateful.

The adrenaline was wearing off by the time they were clear of the compound (which by some miracle hadn't been stirred into action by the gunshots), and the pain in his side was getting worse with every step he took. He did his best to ignore it. The further he made it, the more likely Illya was to listen to reason. Because, though he didn't dare say anything until he absolutely had to, Napoleon knew he would never make it to the rendezvous.

xxx  _Now_

Bastien is getting ready to make breakfast when he realizes he's run out of wood for the stove.

" _Scheisse_ ," he mutters. It's cold out, and it's been snowing off and on all morning, and he doesn't particularly feel like going out in it. But he also doesn't feel like having a cold breakfast, and even if he did he has a guest. He quickly checks on the stranger, who's sleeping soundly, before grabbing his coat, hat, and gloves. He's bundled up by the time he gets to the door (though it still takes him a few moments to steel himself before he leaves the house).

He's lucky enough to go out during a break in the snow, and he doesn't waste any time, in case it starts up again. Wielding the axe is hard work. It warms him up quickly and, as is often the case, he finds himself wishing he hadn't put on so damn many layers. He splits four logs and gathers up the pieces. It's a big armload, but nothing he hasn't carried before. The snow is just starting up again when he goes inside, dumping the wood in a pile. He'll stack it later, after he's eaten. He put a few of the pieces into the stove before he takes off his gloves and grabs the matchbox he keeps in the kitchen. He opens it and sighs, silently cursing its emptiness. He'll have to get one from the box above the fireplace, then. He gets to the living room and freezes.

The man is standing in a far corner of the room, bent over in the middle. One hand is clutching a blanket, his arm curled around his injured side, while the other hand brandishes the large hunting knife Bastien keeps on the mantle. His hand is shaking and he looks like a slight breeze could knock him over, but his expression is determined, and the look in his eyes holds danger.

" _Sprichst du Deutsch_?" Bastien speaks slowly, holding his hands up to show he's unarmed. " _Nederlands_? English?"

"All of the above," the man says, and Bastien feels himself frown. He can't quite place the man's accent, not until he speaks again.

"Who the fuck are you?"

xxx

"I said,  _who the fuck are you_?" Napoleon all but snarls it, and he thinks he's done quite a good job of sounding as unpleasant as he feels. He's fairly certain that he looks pathetic, given that he's wounded and in nothing but his underwear with only a blanket preserving some small shred of dignity, so he has to sound as fierce as possible.

The man, who's standing in the doorway with his hands raised, doesn't look intimidated. If anything he looks confused.

"You...You are American?" the man asks. He's tall-taller even than Illya-and well-built. Definitely the kind of man a group of terrorists would want on their side. But he doesn't sound like them and he sure as hell doesn't look like them. He doesn't look ready to kill.

That doesn't mean he's not one of them.

Napoleon lifts the knife a little higher and takes a small step forward.

" _Who are you?_ "

"My name is Bastien. I found you in the woods...You look cold. I'll make some tea."

"I'm more of a coffee person," Napoleon says, narrowing his eyes. It's only partly in suspicion. Mostly it's because the bullet hole in his side is really starting to smart. "Why did you bring me here?"

Bastien blinks, lowering his arms slightly. "I'm sorry?"

"What do you want from me?" Napoleon asks. "Information? Money?"

Much to Napoleon's dismay, one corner of Bastien's mouth lifts up in a half-smile that's surprisingly warm. "What? No. No, I don't know you from a- _wat is het_ -" He gestures with both hands. "A...hole in the dirt! I saw you out there, freezing, and I could not let you die. I do not want anything from you."

Napoleon studies the man head to toe. With his thick flannel and beat-up boots and untamed beard, Bastien does look like someone who lives alone in the woods rather than a greedy, gun-happy bastard who would kidnap a child (or a dashingly handsome stranger) for the money.

"Alright," Napoleon says slowly, lowering the knife and letting it clatter to the floor. "I believe you." No sooner does he say it than the pain in his side reaches a sudden crescendo, and he lets out a cry, dropping the blanket and clutching at the bullet hole. Bastien hurries forward, putting a hand on Napoleon's shoulder and bending down to peer at his side.

"You're bleeding again," he says, looking up at Napoleon with raised eyebrows. "You need rest. Come, sit down."

Napoleon lets the large man guide him to an open chair, and almost immediately Bastien is tucking blankets around his shoulders.

"We will talk in a moment. But first, tea," Bastien says before walking into another part of the house that Napoleon can't quite see. He's back a second later, an embarrassed look on his face as he grabs a small box from the mantle and gives it a little shake. "Matches."

Napoleon takes in his surroundings as Bastien busies himself with the tea. The cabin is well built and sturdy, and a lot of the furnishings seem to be handmade. While there are some lamps placed strategically around the room, there's not a lightbulb to be seen, so it's safe to say there's no electricity. Natural light floods through two windows behind Napoleon, and the fireplace contributes an orange glow that gives the room a comfortable hominess.

The whistle of the tea kettle makes Napoleon jump, and a few seconds later Bastien appears with a two steaming cups in hand. He holds one out to Napoleon.

"Drink this," he says.

Napoleon wrinkles his nose as he works one hand out from beneath the pile of blankets. "I don't like tea," he mutters.

Bastien responds by pushing a cup into his hand. "It's chamomile. It's good for you. Drink it."

Napoleon sighs. The man is probably right. He sips at the tea and tries not to grimace at the potpourri-like taste. It's on his second sip that his thumb grazes his chin and he almost drops his cup. He scrambles to free his other hand and immediately touches his face, feeling both cheeks and his chin with growing urgency.

"How long have I been here?" he asks.

Bastien sets his tea on the little table beside him and sits forward, clasping his hands in front of him. "Three days."

"Three-" Napoleon's heart pounds as he tries to stand, only to get caught up in the mound of blankets. "Three days? Where are my clothes?" he says as he tries to disentangle himself. He only entraps himself further, and ends up falling flat on his back. It knocks the wind out of him, and the pain radiating from the bullet wound becomes practically unbearable. He must black out for a moment, because when he opens his eyes Bastien is hovering over him looking worried.

"I'm sorry, but you can't possibly leave now," he says. "In your state? You would be dead before you even reached the road. Stay there, I'll be back in a moment."

Napoleon doesn't argue as he closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the pain. He doesn't think he could stand right now even if he wanted to. Even opening his eyes seems like huge task, not because he's tired but because he's pretty sure that opening them will, like a butterfly fluttering its wings, start a chain reaction that makes the pain even worse. He hears Bastien return a moment later.

"Hey," he says, and Napoleon feels two fingers against his neck. He frowns and raises one hand.

"I'm awake," he says, prying his eyelids apart with (surprisingly) no ill effect.

A corner of Bastien's mouth lifts up in an almost-smile. "I'm going to change your dressings," he says, and looks up at Napoleon. "What's your name?"

"Solo."

"Solo," Bastien repeats as he starts to remove the bandages. Napoleon winces, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Hopefully some conversation will distract him.

"Where'd you learn to do all this?" he asks.

"I was in medical school before the war. What I didn't have the chance to learn there I learned on the battlefield as a medic," Bastien says as he starts cleaning the wound. "You're very fortunate, you know. The cold could have killed you, but it saved you instead. It stopped you from bleeding to death."

Napoleon thinks back to Illya packing snow against the wound. He'll have to remember to thank him for that.

"Did you fight?" Bastien asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

"At the end, yes," Napoleon answers.

Bastien nods, then looks at him for a long moment. "You must have been practically a child," he finally says. "What about after?"

Napoleon is quiet for a moment to think of his answer. "I stayed in Europe...selling art. And you?"

Bastien presses a bandage down on his wound, eliciting a low moan, before making a broad gesture with one arm. "I decided to live alone in the woods, like Thoreau. The war showed me enough of mankind for one lifetime." He furrows his brow in concentration. "And…done. Now for the exit wound."

"Exit wound?" Napoleon repeats. The pain is so omnipresent he hadn't even realized there was one.

"Lucky for you, yes. You're going to have to turn on your side for me."

Napoleon grimaces at the thought. "You know Bastien, I'm going to be honest with you here. I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

"Mmhm. And...infection, blood-poisoning, sepsis, and death. Do you like that sound of that?"

The grimace turns into a scowl. Napoleon sees his point, though. "I can't say that I do," he says, then adds, somewhat reluctantly, "I may need your help."

Bastien responds by putting one hand on Napoleon's shoulder and the other on his hip. "Try and stay relaxed. On the count of three. Are you ready?"

Napoleon nods.

"Okay, one, two,  _three_."

Napoleon leverages himself with his arm at the same time Bastien pushes, and a cry rips from him as his muscles tighten painfully.

"Are you okay?" Bastien's voice seems far away as Napoleon lets out a long groan. "Solo, are you alright?"

"Uh huh," Napoleon manages between gasps. It seems he's in worse shape than he'd initially thought. He realizes with a sinking feeling that he's going to be out of commission for awhile. He lifts his head and turns toward Bastien. "I don't suppose you know how long-"

"How long until you can leave?"

Napoleon lets his head fall back to the ground. "Yeah."

The man is quiet as he puts fresh bandages on the second wound. When he finally speaks, he sounds apologetic. "The nearest town is a full day's walk, even longer when the weather is bad, and that is for a healthy man, and you...You are very badly injured. I can take you there when you're ready, but…" He sighs. "It will take you a few weeks to heal, at least."

 _A few weeks_. Napoleon is rendered speechless. His only chance of getting back to London any sooner is Illya finding him out here. But the odds of that happening are slim to none. After all, it's already been three days...

xxx

Three days ago, Illya and Napoleon saved the child.

Three days ago Illya left Napoleon to bleed alone in the snow.

Two days ago, they went back to get him and found nothing. The search had been called off just before dark, and they'd gone back to London the same night. Illya had talked to (yelled at) Waverly as soon as he'd set foot in headquarters. Waverly had calmly (frighteningly) reminded him who gave orders and sent Illya to get a good night's sleep. (He'd stared at the ceiling til morning.)

One day ago, Waverly came out of his office after an hours-long phone call looking livid and told Illya that he was doing what he could before muttering, " _Fucking politics,"_  and shutting himself in his office to make more phone calls.

Now, Illya is pacing in the foyer outside Waverly's door. There's a part of him-a large part of him-that wants to be shouting and throwing furniture and punching holes in walls. But that (as Solo is always quick to remind him) won't help anything and besides, when they go back for Napoleon he'll need his hands. So, he paces. One of the tactical guys whose name Illya never bothered to learn passes through, raising one hand in a small wave.

"When's the last time you slept?" he says, and Illya thinks it's an odd question to ask a stranger. He doesn't answer.

He doesn't even stop pacing.

"Well at least come grab a bite."

Illya's not really sure why this guy is pretending to care. He wants to ask him. All he says is, "I'm fine."

The man looks at him for a long moment, then shrugs. He says one more thing before he leaves, an obnoxious attempt at lightening the mood. "You keep that pacing up, you'll wear a bloody hole in the floor."

Barely a minute passes before the door to the office opens, and a weary-looking Waverly ushers Illya in before closing them in.

"Have a seat, Kuryakin," he says.

"I'd rather stand," Illya says, and is surprised when Waverly rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh.

"You'll make me dizzy with all your pacing and lord knows your knees could use a break. Sit."

Illya grits his teeth and sits down in the left-most chair. (Napoleon usually takes the right.) Waverly surprises him by leaning against the open chair, arms crossed over his chest.

"They think our little terrorist cell might be connected to the IRA, the first in a possible series of satellite groups planning on bringing the movement to the continent, and then to London. Since there are people on the inside, they planned on playing the long game, waiting to see what intel they could gather. They were more than a little reluctant to let us stomp around for an operative we aren't even sure is there…"

Illya feels his heart sink, even as he resolves to go back alone if he has to.

"...but I managed to persuade them."

Illya looks up at him sharply. "Really?"

Waverly nods. "Our agent on the inside has already been alerted to the situation and will be out of the compound before the attack." He stops talking, and Illya knows there's a  _but_  coming.

"There is one condition, however," Waverly says a breath later, and his voice is suddenly stern.

"What is it?"

"You are to bring the leader, Daniel Byrne, back to London. Alive. Do you think you can manage that?"

"Yes," Illya says.

Waverly's eyes narrow just enough for Illya to notice. He takes a deep breath before he speaks. "Even if you don't find what you're looking for?"

Illya blinks. He hadn't even considered the fact that Napoleon might not be there. He shakes the thought from his mind.

"When do we leave?"

xxx


	4. Chapter 4

xxx  _Now_

Illya sits in the cab of the first truck in the convoy, wedged between the driver and Enzo. His right leg bounces, getting faster the closer they get. Four days is a long time, and he has no idea what condition the cowboy will be in when they find him, and he's jammed in this tin can just  _thinking_  about it-

"You should try to relax," Enzo says, interrupting his thoughts.

Illya grits his teeth. "I am relaxed."

Enzo sighs and mutters something in Italian that doesn't sound very flattering before putting a firm hand on Illya's knee.

Illya freezes, his heart beating faster as he stares straight ahead. "Get. Your hand. Off me.  _Now_."

Enzo doesn't move except to turn and look at him. "Listen to me, Agent Kuryakin. This team is under my command which means that it's my responsibility. It also means that if this mission goes bad, it's my responsibility. If you let your emotions cloud your judgement, it doesn't just look bad for you. It looks bad for me, and it looks bad for Waverly. So I need you to calm down, focus, and approach this like you would approach any other op." He moves his hand and looks out the window as if nothing had happened.

Illya wants to yell at him or punch him or both, but he doesn't because he knows the man is right. It's not going to do anyone any good if he goes in there angry, hands shaking, unable to think or shoot straight. He takes a deep breath and holds it a second, then lets it out slowly, unclenching fists that he doesn't remember clenching and willing his leg to stay still. He takes another deep breath before he says, "How much longer?"

Enzo leans forward and looks at the driver. "Hunt?"

"We're about twenty miles out," Hunt answers.

Illya just hums in response. It's not long, but it feels like an eternity. His mind starts floating back to his partner, what they could be doing to him, what they've already done-

"Let's go over the plan," he says. If he's going to remain calm, he needs to think about something-anything-else.

Enzo looks a little surprised, but obliges. "We're going to take the last mile and a half by foot. Once there, teams Alpha and Beta will take the main compound. We'll go in while Beta watches the perimeter in case Byrne tries to run. Charlie and Delta will take the outbuildings, and Echo will watch the road, keeping any enemy vehicles from making it out. Our primary objective is to get Daniel Byrne out alive, and our secondary objective is to find Agent Solo. Any questions?"

Illya's fingers brush the weapon at his hip. "I know I can't kill Byrne, but can I shoot him?"

Hunt lets out a soft snort and Illya glares at him. Enzo, though, has been along on a few missions now and knows Illya enough to recognize that he isn't joking.

"I trust you know how to avoid anything vital. Or you could just do that Russian Kiss of Death."

Illya's eyes narrow. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says. No one is supposed to know about the Kiss. It's one of the KGB's best kept secrets.

At least, it  _was._

He glances over at Enzo. "Who told you?"

"Who do you think?"

Illya rolls his eyes. He should have known Napoleon would be unable to keep it to himself. He'll give the cowboy an earful once they get him back. Because they  _are_  going to get him back.

"Here," Enzo says, and the truck rolls to a stop. He looks at Illya as he opens the door. "This is it. The men know to come to you immediately if they find your partner."

"Good," Illya says as he follows the man out of the truck. His heart has picked up its hammering again, so hard it feels as if it's trying to pound its way out. As he draws his gun, though, his hands are steady. It's easier to be cool and objective once he's actually in the thick of it, when his mind is entirely focused on what he's doing and needs to do. It'll be mayhem soon, but for now, with the last of the men out of their vehicles, it's quiet. Besides the wind rustling the trees on either side of the road, the only sound is the soft footfall of boots in snow as they move toward the compound.

It's not long before he can see it, a dismal gray building that looks as cold as the snow. As they get closer, smaller dismal gray buildings can be seen. Napoleon is in one of them, wounded and alone.

But not for long.

They reach the gate a few minutes later. It's tall and sturdy, and would be intimidating except that it's designed to keep out military vehicles. There's enough space on either side for a person to fit through comfortably, which means the tactical team can slip in quick and quiet.

"Alpha team, on me," Enzo says, and Illya and a dozen other men follow him at a running crouch.

They storm the doors on the count of three.

Chaos erupts the moment they open as the two guards inside shout for backup. There are three hallways branching off the entrance, one straight ahead and one to either side and at least a dozen men pour out the two rightmost halls, armed and shouting, and the fighting begins.

Enzo makes eye contact with Illya through the melee and points down the empty hall. Illya can't hear him, but it's clear what he's saying:  _Go_. Illya nods and grabs the man in front of him by the back of the neck before hurling him headfirst into the wall. He falls bonelessly to the ground.

Illya steps over him and ducks down the hallway to his left. It's longer than he thinks, and the sounds of fighting fade away as he follows its long bend.

There's only one door at the very end of the hallway and somehow Illya knows Byrne is on the other side of it. He's not surprised to find that it's locked, but two good rams with his shoulder takes care of that and he bursts into the room. It's large, with most of the space being occupied by a long oval conference table. There's only one man there, his back to the door, and he scrambles to his feet as Illya enters. He turns and pulls a gun but Illya has already closed the gap between them and easily twists the weapon from his grip.

"Hello, Byrne," Illya growls. He grabs the Irishman by the front of his coat and slams him onto the table.

Byrne is clearly winded, but he grins up at Illya and a chuckle rises from his throat. "Have...have we met?"

Illya responds by driving a fist into his face. "Where is he?" he growls.

"Where's who?"

Illya hits him again. "Where is he?"

"I don't know who the hell you mean," Byrne answers, blood on his teeth.

Illya hits him again, and this time he feels the bastard's nose break under his hand. " _Where is he_?"

Byrne lets out a groan before answering. "Look, fella. You're gonna have to be more specific than that."

Shouting can be heard now, and Illya glances over his shoulder. Enemy combatants could be here at any second. He looks back at Byrne, pulling him up so their faces are only inches apart. "Where is Napoleon Solo?"

Recognition flickers in Byrne's eyes, and an unpleasant smile slowly creeps onto his face. "Oh.  _Oh._  You mean the American." He gazes at Illya with that smile on his lips.

Illya can feel his hands beginning to shake, and he's not sure he can control it this time. "What did you do?" The question comes out as a harsh whisper.

Byrne runs his tongue over bloodied teeth and says, "I killed him."

Illya is hitting him before he even realizes he's doing it, one, two, three times. When he stops, his knuckles are split. When he speaks, his voice is trembling. "No." Byrne is lying.  _He has to be._  "Where is he?"

"I…" Byrne's shoulders start shaking, and his words are garbled by blood and laughter. "I tortured him and I killed him and...and yesterday I burned his body!"

The roar that rips from Illya's throat is animalistic in its fury, and his fists...his fists pummel the man on the table until the man falls silent, and then they keep going. They feel skin break and bone shatter and they don't stop.

" _Agent Kuryakin!"_

He can barely hear the words over the sound of his own frenzied heartbeat. He pays them no heed.

" _Agent Kuryakin, we need him alive!"_

He's started now, and he's not going stop. He's not going to stop until there's nothing left.

" _Agent, that's enough."_  It's a different voice, a calmer voice, that speaks now. It's just as easy to ignore.

It's the sound that follows the words that finally cuts through the rage enough for Illya to take notice.

It's the sound of a gun being cocked.

He stops, one bloodied hand frozen in the air, and turns to see who's on the other end of the weapon. He doesn't recognize the young man at first, but when he does he feels his jaw tighten.

" _You_ ," he snarls. It's the man he'd seen outside Waverly's office the day before, only his face isn't so friendly now. "Did he send you to keep an eye on me?"

"You know we need him alive," the man answers, and Illya's face darkens.

"Do you know what this piece of shit did?"

"It doesn't matter what he did," the man answers. "We need him alive."

Illya straightens up and takes a step forward. His voice gets louder with each word as he speaks."He tortured him. He  _burned_  him!" Another step forward and the gun is against his shoulder. He looks down at the man. His voice gets low and dangerous. "You going to shoot me?"

The man looks back up at him, his jaw working. "Yes," he finally says.

Illya stares at him. "Then you better point it somewhere that counts."

The man is about to answer when Enzo pushes his way, panting, through the gathered soldiers. "Kurya-what the hell? Williams, lower your weapon!"

Williams doesn't move, doesn't break eye contact with Illya. "I had to stop him from killing Byrne. I might be too late."

Enzo shoots a poisonous look at Illya before turning to the man next to him. "Go see if Byrne is alive."

The man nods and squeezes his way into the room, mumbling an apology to Illya as he steps around him. A few seconds later, he says, "He's in bad shape, but he's alive."

Williams's stance relaxes just enough to be noticed and he lowers his gun. Illya gives him one last look before pushing past him, storming into the hall. Someone grabs his shoulder and he wheels around, ready for a fight.

"Hey! Easy," Enzo says, putting his hands up. "I don't want to fight you, Kuryakin." There's something in his expression that Illya doesn't like.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I need to show you something," Enzo says. He won't meet Illya's eyes.

They make their way through the halls and out into the cold, crossing the snowy grounds until they reach a small outbuilding at the corner of the compound. The door is open and there are some men lingering just outside. They all look up and he can see it in their faces, in the way their eyes meet his for only a second before shifting to their shoes. Illya is afraid he knows what's in the building, and his feet suddenly feel as if they're cased in cement. Every step forward is a struggle. He wants to turn back, because there's a part of him that thinks if he doesn't see it, then maybe it didn't happen. Almost against his will, he starts to pray under his breath, the prayer his mother used to whisper to him when he was young.

" _Nash otets, kotoryy na nebesakh osvyashchen, budet vashim imenem…"_

He steps into the building and the words catch in his throat, and he knows.

No one heard his prayer.

He recognizes the smell before he's able to identify the twisted black shape on the cold cement. He barely looks at it before fleeing, lurching out of the building. He stumbles and falls forward, his knees hitting the ground hard as he struggles to catch his breath. He doesn't feel the cold wet of the snow soaking through the knees of his pants. He doesn't feel the cold flakes that start falling, kissing his neck and sticking to his hair. He doesn't feel the hands that pull him to his feet and drag him away from the nightmare.

He doesn't feel anything until he's back in London, standing before the familiar oak door.

And then he does.

xxx

Waverly sits behind his desk, staring intently at nothing as he waits for the men to return. He's surprised at the sadness that's eating away at him. The guilt. He's lost men before, good men, family men. Soldiers, agents, civilians. But this...It's different, somehow, with Solo. More personal. It doesn't just feel like a casualty. It feels like a loss. Like a failure.

Instead of the usual compartmentalizing, Waverly's thoughts run in circles, a hundred scenarios of what he could have done differently playing on repeat in his mind. For the first time in years, he's sorely tempted to return to his old habits. A needle in the arm to make him forget, at least for a few hours. Enough drinks will do the same.

He sighs, reaching into his jacket for something to that will hopefully take the edge off. His fingers brush the box of smokes in his pocket before he changes his mind, opening one of his desk drawers instead. He rifles around until he finds the small box that contains his tobacco and rolling papers. He finds that rolling his own fags can be quite relaxing and he takes his time, concentrating on the task before him. A few minutes later, and he's got a perfect cigarette. He places one end in his mouth and reaches for his lighter. It takes a few tries, the infernal thing, but it eventually gets the job done and he takes a grateful drag, closing his eyes and leaning back as far as his chair will let him.

There's a knock on the door and Waverly opens his eyes. "Yes?"

It opens slightly, and a blonde head peers around it.

"Er, yes, Cynthia? What is it?"

"You wanted me to tell you when they arrived, sir," the secretary says.

"Oh, yes, thank you," he says, straightening up.

She nods, and the door closes again. Waverly stands slowly and walks around the oak desk. He takes one last drag before putting his cigarette out, and then he waits. Barely a minute passes before the door bursts open and Kuryakin storms in, slamming the door shut behind him. Waverly barely has time to react before the Russian grabs him by the lapels and pushes him against the nearest wall.

"You sent someone to fucking  _spy_  on me?" he snarls, and he's angrier than Waverly has ever seen him.

Under ordinary circumstances, Waverly would remind him of the precariousness of his situation using carefully worded threats and kindly ask him to take a step back. But these aren't ordinary circumstances, and though he's admittedly frightened (he'd be a fool not to be), he takes a deep breath and nods.

"I did, yes, because I knew what you might find there and I knew how you would react."

Illya looks down at the floor, his fists tightening.

"Kuryakin," Waverly says. He's not sure what his plan is, but he needs to get his agent's attention.

Illya doesn't respond. His breathing has grown fast and heavy, his chest heaving.

"Kuryakin." He says it a little louder this time, but the Russian doesn't seem to've even heard. The door cracks open and Waverly looks over to see Williams. He makes eye contact with the man and shakes his head, just slightly. It's enough to send him away, and Waverly returns his focus to the agent before him.

"Illya," he says, and the man stiffens. "Illya, I want you to look at me."

Slowly, Illya lifts his head. His expression is angry, but his eyes-well, his eyes are like looking in a mirror.

Waverly is surprised to find a lump in his throat, and he does his best to swallow it before he speaks. "Illya, I'm sorry."

The agent's grip on him loosens and he looks confused. "What?" It's barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry," Waverly says again, and Kuryakin gradually releases his hold, his arms falling to his sides.

Any trace of anger has left the Russian's face, and he seems...lost. For the first time since Waverly's known him, there's pain visible in his features. He opens his mouth, but quickly closes it again, clearly struggling to find words.

"I think your hand might be broken," Waverly says, breaking the silence. He really does think so, but he's also providing Kuryakin the chance to escape.

"I...I should go to the infirmary and have it looked at," Kuryakin responds after a moment.

Waverly nods. "I think that would be wise."

He watches Kuyakin leave and thinks it's strange, how all it had taken to cut through the man's anger was two words, spoken sincerely.

He sits back down at his desk, retrieves his wooden box from the drawer, and rolls cigarettes until he runs out of tobacco.

xxx

Gaby almost smiles at the rainfall as she makes the short walk from the cab to headquarters. Nothing quite like eight days in the hot, muggy, miserable weather of Egypt to make one appreciate the cold, rainy, miserable weather of London.

"Is he in his office?" she asks as she enters the building.

Cynthia looks up at her. "Oh! Yes, but-"

"Thank you," Gaby interrupts, setting her suitcase down and heading to Waverly's office. She doesn't bother knocking (she never does), instead bursting in and kicking the door shut behind her.

"Men are pigs," she announces, flopping down in the chair across from Waverly. She starts digging around in her coat. "That being said...I got what you asked for. And more." She pulls the small leatherbound book from her inside pocket with a look of triumph and drops it on the desk. "His ledger. It has everything-buyers, suppliers, even the calendar he uses to-and this goes back to my earlier statement-keep his mistresses straight. There's something else, too, but I don't know what. It's in code, but I'm sure it's not anything Solo can't handle." She leans back with a smug grin.

It vanishes when she notices the look on Waverly's face.

"...What?" she says.

Waverly takes a deep breath and folds his hands in front of him on the desk. "Something's happened while you were away."

xxx


End file.
